


circles, echoes, reflections

by harlequin87



Series: RWC 2019 [2]
Category: Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Gen, Not starting against Australia in World Cups
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 01:00:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21066149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequin87/pseuds/harlequin87
Summary: They say history doesn’t repeat itself. But how the hell else could you explain this, George thought bitterly. Four years and six thousand miles away, and the same outcome.





	circles, echoes, reflections

They say history doesn’t repeat itself. But how the hell else could you explain this, George thought bitterly. Four years and six thousand miles away, and the same outcome. All those games scoring tries, captaining the team, all those bloody meaningless player of the match awards. No – in the end, it all came down to the same stupid formula.

“England team to play Australia: at captain and flyhalf, Owen Farrell.”

George had spent so many months and years trying to wash away those words, to get them out of the dark corners where they lurked. But now they were back; tinged with an Australian accent, not a northern one, admittedly, but back nonetheless.

In the main conference room in bloody Oita, in bloody Japan, in the bloody World Cup he’d sacrificed so much for, George stared at the ceiling. He couldn’t break down now. This was his nightmare realised. Picked against the little teams, sure, but as soon as any significant threat hoved into view, he was suddenly too small, too weak, too unreliable. A minnow to play against minnows. Compare that to the mighty Owen Farrell, who was basically the whole tuna, who could take two head knocks and allegedly still be fine, and it was a wonder George had even got on the plane.

Eddie droned on, working his way through the team. George acknowledged his position on the bench with a flicker of a smile. Not dropped completely, thank God. His dad would kill him if he wasn’t in the squad. But he hadn’t worn the 22 shirt in weeks. First a typhoon, then this: was Japan trying to throw him off his game? (Which apparently he was never on, thanks Eddie, but that was beside the point.)

The meeting broke up, and George walked blindly out of the room. He’d missed the end of Eddie’s speech, but then it didn’t matter, because he was only coming on at the weekend if the game was safe. He knew his place.

He stumbled through the corridors, not caring where he ended up, only knowing he needed to get away, get out. He thought he’d done enough this time. But it turns out the old saying was true: the media don’t pick the team, the head coach does. And the head coach hadn’t wanted him, so that was that.

Somehow, he’d ended up outside his room. He jabbed the keycard at the door a few times, shoving it open as it lit up blue. He could only hope that Jack had the good sense to stay somewhere else for the time being, at least until he’d regained control.

George flopped onto the bed, whacking his knee on the bedside table as he did so. Good, he thought savagely. He could play up the ‘injury’ and make it seem like Eddie was just being careful with him; keeping him in reserve for the big matches, obviously. Ha bloody ha.

Someone knocked at the door and George groaned. It wasn’t Jack, because he had a key. And if it was someone looking for Jack, it would be Sladey. But Henry would know where Jack was anyway, because they were telepathically linked. _Not like another two rugby players I could name_, the voice in his head hissed. So it was someone come to make him feel better. Brilliant, excellent, just what everyone needed right now.

“Fordy?” the man called. “Can I come in?” George couldn’t distinguish the voice from where his ear was smushed into the duvet, but he rolled off the bed regardless. It didn’t matter at this point. Nothing did.

“George,” Owen said soberly as he opened the door. George resisted the urge to shut it in his annoying, starting flyhalf face. “Let me in?” He stood aside, allowing the captain (why would you ever be picked ahead of him when it actually mattered?) past. Owen perched on the end of Jack’s bed, looking strangely uncertain for someone who was affirmed by the selection process every week without fail.

“I’m sorry, George,” Owen said, trying to make eye contact with his friend. “Look – Eddie meant to start us together, like usual, but then Cheika put out his team. Their back row is absolutely massive. He couldn’t risk it.”  
“It’s fine,” George said dully. And it was. He was a team player. It was the best decision for the team, because he was undoubtedly terrible.

“No, come on, mate.” Owen scooted closer. “This isn’t like last time at all, and you know it.”  
“No, it’s not,” George said, one mortifying tear escaping down his cheek. “It’s worse. Last time, I got dropped in the two important pool games, after playing okay in the first one. This time – player of the match, captain, starting all the games – still dropped. I don’t know what else I can do.” He curled up on the bed again, not particularly caring what he looked like. Two years to dig himself out of the hole of last time. At least he probably didn’t have another World Cup in him (_not after this performance) _so it didn’t matter. He didn’t matter.

Owen gently touched his shoulder, shaken as it was by sobs. “Fordy – George – mate. I promise you, Eddie likes what he sees. You just – this isn’t your kind of game, let’s be honest.” George didn’t have the energy to articulate the cutting remark on his lips. If a World Cup quarter-final wasn’t his kind of game, then there was no way in hell that a semi-final would be. Essentially, what Eddie was telling him was that his tournament was over. Enjoy the holiday, mate, because you won’t be feeling any bumps and bruises for the next few weeks.

“Hey, buddy,” Owen said, pulling him upright and into his chest. “It’s tactical, not personal.”  
“Easy for you to say,” George choked out. “When was the last time you didn’t start a game you could play in? Oh yes, when your actual child was being born. Don’t pity me.”

“I don’t pity you,” Owen said, rubbing up and down his back. “I’m sad we aren’t playing together. When I say it makes things easier, I mean it. Sladey’s a good lad, but he’s not a patch on you.”  
“Except he’s five inches taller,” George said, muffled.  
Owen sighed. “Fordy, I’m trying to help. Yes, he’s bigger than you so he was picked. No, this isn’t the end of your tournament. You were here before, and you got back up again and put yourself in the best possible position to play.”

George twisted away. “I don’t want to hear it. Tell Jack he can come in if he wants.”  
Owen stood up. “If you’re sure… I’ll see you at lunch, alright?” George grunted, and the captain finally left.

Four years. Six thousand miles. Not a single thing had changed.

**Author's Note:**

> Rationally, I can see why. Emotionally - poor George. I know they're all resilient professionals, but that's got to hurt.  
(But a quarter-final! Exciting times.)


End file.
